


Five Times Neal and Clinton Couldn’t Keep Their Hands Off Each Other

by rabidchild67



Series: Undeniable Chemistry [4]
Category: White Collar
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-03
Updated: 2012-10-03
Packaged: 2017-11-15 13:50:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/527992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rabidchild67/pseuds/rabidchild67
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Title says it all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Times Neal and Clinton Couldn’t Keep Their Hands Off Each Other

**A Welcome Diversion**

Clinton Jones sat in the van, alone, on the graveyard shift, fighting to stay awake. They were sitting on an investment banker suspected of embezzling millions from his clients, and because of political considerations, the higher-ups had called for round the clock surveillance. Clinton had been on the overnight for the last five days and it was beginning to take its toll.

A light rapping at the door startled him out of his stupor and he turned his head. “Excuse me, but the power is out in my apartment, and it’s a great thing you’re parked _right outside my building._

Clinton removed his headphones and grinned at the newcomer. “I’m sorry, but you’ll have to call customer service to report any outages, sir.”

Neal lowered his voice to a sexier timbre. “But I need someone to turn it on.”

“Yeah, I’m not good at the double entendres.”

“It’s boring anyway. Look: I brought snacks.” Neal hefted a small, soft-sided cooler onto the console and took a seat.

“Great – I’m starving. A microwave burrito from the bodega down the street does not a good dinner make.”

Neal wrinkled his nose and unpacked the food. “I’ve got high-energy food designed to keep you awake!” He laid out a spread of tea-smoked salmon, bitter green salad and whole grain dinner rolls that were still warm from the oven.

“I can’t believe you brought all this,” Jones marveled. 

“I know how to take care of my man,” Neal said, opening a bottle of Pellegrino and handing it over. 

Clinton couldn’t suppress a shy smile at Neal referring to him as his man.

“How go the wars?” Neal continued around a mouthful of salad.

“Slow. I think I can hear the guy snoring.”

“Isn’t there a probie that could’ve pulled this detail?” 

“Look at you with the FBI jargon.”

“Heh. Don’t tell Moz.” Neal slid his chair closer and buttered a roll for Clinton, laying it atop his salmon before going back to eating his own. “What?” he said, noticing Clinton staring.

“You like to take care of people, don’t you?”

Neal blushed. 

“Diana would say it’s all part of a con, but I know different.” Still Neal didn’t answer. “Have I discovered one of your secrets?”

Neal shook his head slightly, but smiled back. Clinton knew he’d nailed it and was secretly pleased with himself. They finished eating, and Clinton insisted on clearing everything up. Meanwhile, Neal pulled out a thermos of June’s Italian roast that he’d flavored with cinnamon and poured them each a cup. They sat shoulder to shoulder and sipped at their coffee, the volume turned up on the equipment. Suddenly, their target farted in his sleep.

Laughing, Neal leaned over and laid his head on Clinton's shoulder. Clinton leaned his own head over Neal’s, and settled against him, laying his hand on the inside of Neal’s thigh. They often sat in this position when they were together, watching old noir films, of which they were both huge fans. Neal laid his own hand over Clinton's and began to trace his fingertips along the veins, worrying them back and forth under the skin, his touch gentle but electric.

Clinton loved Neal’s hands. His fingers were long and slender, simultaneously strong and gentle, capable of forcing clay or paint to do his bidding, but with fingertips that were almost reverent in their caresses. Those fingertips were now working their way up Clinton's chest, tracing the line of his body until they reached Clinton's jaw. Neal turned toward him, guided his face forward and began to kiss him, gentle, coffee-flavored kisses that soon had him humming.

Clinton turned his body toward Neal more and pulled him closer. He liked closeness when they kissed, liked to feel Neal’s heart beating against his chest, the warmth and strength of another body pressed against his own. Neal dropped his knee to the floor, pulling Clinton with him, his hands at his hips.

“What are you doing?”

“It’s been so long since…I want you on top of me,” Neal breathed.

The floor of the van was cold, and dirty, and cramped with the chairs that were now kicked towards the front, but Neal shimmied himself towards the back, Jones following along. When they were settled, Neal threw a leg around Clinton, angling his pelvis up so that he was rubbing their burgeoning erections together. Clinton gasped, pressing his cheek against Neal’s and Neal bit him on the earlobe.

“Hey!” Clinton protested, but Neal took hold of the knot of his tie and pulled him closer, his other arm around his hips and grinding against the FBI agent urgently.

“I think we’re going to embarrass ourselves,” Jones pointed out. 

“Don’t care.”

“Diana could show up at any minute, you know.”

“Oh, Christ!” 

That did it for Neal, who always found the prospect of getting caught _in flagrante_ to be incredibly hot. His thrusts against Clinton intensified, and when he came he threw his head back and let out a short, sharp cry, Clinton's right arm supporting his lower back as he shuddered out his climax. 

Neal was panting, boneless in Clinton's arms. Clinton cradled the back of Neal’s head in his right hand and kissed him, his fingertips pressing against the sweaty hairs at the back of his neck. He could feel his own erection, insistent and straining against his pants, a stain of precome already spreading. Neal reached down and unzipped him, took his cock out and expertly brought him to climax, Jones’ come landing in ropes on the front of Neal’s pants.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” Jones said after he had caught his breath, surveying Neal’s ruined pants.

“Better me than you – I can leave,” Neal pointed out. Jones wanted to get up, but Neal pulled him back to lie on his back on the floor, and leaned on his elbow looking into Jones’ eyes. “God, you’re beautiful after sex,” Neal pointed out, and kissed his sweaty temple. Clinton closed his eyes and leaned into him with a sigh.

The sound of an incoming text message on Clinton's phone brought them out of their stupor a few minutes later. Clinton sat up and retrieved it from the console. “Diana’s on her way – but she’ll be ten minutes late,” he said. 

“That’s my cue to leave.” Neal got up and packed the cooler, using the wet naps he’d brought to clean off his stained suit as best he could. He handed Clinton the coffee, though, and bussed him on the cheek as he leaned over.

“Thanks for coming by, it was…a welcome diversion.”

“Happy to oblige. Maybe we’ll do it again tomorrow night.”

“I’ve never wanted an investigation to drag on more,” Jones said with a smile as he put his headphones back on and adjusted a setting on the equipment. 

\----

**Sleep, Forget, Heal**

Clinton jogged up the block to the mansion on Riverside drive, his Oxfords making _skitch-skitch-skitch_ sounds on the pavement. He was anxious and frustrated, and arriving much later than he had thought he would. Paperwork, witness statements and traffic had conspired to keep him away from Neal longer than he wanted to be, and he was nearly desperate to get to him.

Their latest was a case that progressed like any other. Neal went undercover to gather information on some hacktivists that were suspected of breaching Treasury Department networks. He’d befriended a young woman who was a part of the ring, and was using her as an asset to gather information. But the people financing the group turned out to be organized crime thugs, the sting had gone monumentally bad, and the girl had been killed. None of it was Neal’s fault, but judging from the way he conducted himself in the immediate aftermath, he felt responsible. And because he had a job to do, and their relationship had to remain a secret at all costs, there was nothing Clinton could have done to comfort him.

He glanced up at the balcony on the third floor as he mounted the front steps to the house. The housekeeper knew him well by now, and waved him up the stairs without a word. He took the steps two at a time, his desire to get to Neal his only thought.

When he got to the apartment, the door was ajar, and he stopped just inside the entry, looking around. He shivered – the doors to the balcony stood wide open, the stiff breeze that had been sweeping through the city all afternoon blowing random bits of paper around the place. Clinton crossed the room with long strides, and stopped just on the edge of the balcony.

Neal sat on the chaise, his back to the door, shoulders hunched, and elbows tucked in. Clinton wondered how a man his size could fold in upon himself so completely. He was barefoot, wearing nothing but a light bathrobe, his hair still damp from a shower. Clinton took a step forward, and the sound of his footfall alerted Neal to his presence. Neal rose, spun around to face him and took a step back and away, fists clenched in front of him.

His face was the very picture of anguish, but he would not look at Clinton. His eyes were wide and red-rimmed, though he was not crying. He kept looking around the space, as if his flight instinct had kicked in and he was trying to find a way out, a way past Clinton and out of there. Clinton took another step forward, his hands open in a calming gesture, placating. He could see Neal physically force himself to calm down, watching Clinton's approach, could see how the muscles in his jaw bunched, his throat moving as he swallowed reflexively.

Clinton moved slowly but purposefully, and before long he stood before Neal, looking into his eyes. He reached up with his right hand and pushed the hair back that was hanging across his forehead, caressed the bruise that blossomed under his eye gently, tenderly. He took one more step closer, put his hand around the nape of Neal’s neck and squeezed.

At his touch, Neal relaxed almost imperceptibly, and Clinton took that as a sign of progress. He coaxed Neal towards him gradually until he had his head resting on his shoulder and moved his other arm around to rest at the small of his back, his finger splayed and supportive. Neal huffed against his neck and Clinton could see his shoulders relax, feel his arms loosen and drop down as his fists unclenched. They stood like that for several minutes, until Clinton noticed that Neal was shivering, and so he turned them both and walked slowly back inside. 

Clinton paused, parted from Neal so that he could close the doors to the balcony, and when he turned back, he saw Neal had tears in his eyes, his face so open and vulnerable, he looked to be at least half his age. A single sob escaped his lips and Clinton barely made it to him as his legs gave out and he sank to the floor. Clinton caught him, eased him to his knees and bent over, cradling Neal’s head against his belly, Neal clutching at him desperately as he shook and wept as if his heart had broken.

When it was over, when he was done, he knelt before Clinton with his hands hanging limp at his sides, spent, exhausted. Clinton raised him to his feet with a hand at his elbow and led him to the bed, laid him down and got in beside him. He pulled Neal to him and laid his head on his chest, petting his face and hair to soothe him, pressing kisses to his eyes, his every touch communicating to him to sleep, to forget, to heal within the circle of his strong arms. 

He was safe.

\----

**Keep it to Yourself**

“I can’t believe this is _my_ brunch and _you’re_ doing all the cooking,” El said, half-exasperated. She’d asked Peter to invite the White Collar team over for a casual brunch, and he’d actually supported the idea.

Neal smiled and shrugged. “You know I love to help. And besides, you’re not exactly in any shape to chop veggies.” He looked pointedly at the cast encasing her left wrist. “I don’t think I ever got the full story of how you did that, by the way.”

El shook her head – she’d slipped in the bathroom, literally with her pants down – no one was going to hear that full story except her husband. “Just clumsy! I can at least be of some use – let me get you something to drink. Mimosa?”

“Sounds good.” Neal turned back to whisking the salad dressing.

As she was pouring the champagne, the front door rang and she went to answer.

“Clinton!” she greeted him delightedly. “And you brought flowers, how kind.” She ushered him in, and he ambled into the kitchen, looking sheepish. 

“Sorry I’m so early – the subway was quicker than I expected.”

She smiled at him and began to look for a vase. She laid the flowers on the counter and tried to undo their wrappings, clumsy with her cast. “Here, let me do that,” Clinton said, and she let him, offering him something to drink. 

While she poured the coffee, Clinton went to the sink and filled the vase with water. Neal went to the sink at the same time, to remove a bowl of greens that were soaking there to allow him the room to fill the vase. As Neal lifted the bowl up, his hip checked Clinton's briefly, who in turn put his hand on Neal’s bicep, squeezing lightly. “Whoa, buddy,” Clinton said, and moved in front of the sink to finish what he was doing. Neal returned to the island and began to slice mushrooms.

As Clinton plopped the flowers in the vase, El set a cup of coffee down in front of him, then took the flowers to the dining room table, which had been set up for a buffet. When she returned to the kitchen, Neal was popping a bit of mushroom into Clinton's mouth, and chucked him playfully on the chin, then went back to his prep. They hadn’t seen her, and the sight made her smile.

“Sure I can’t do anything to help?” El said from the doorway, and they both looked at her, surprised.

“Sit. Rest.”

“Can I help?” Clinton asked.

“You can crack all those eggs into that bowl over there,” Neal instructed, pointing at a pile of egg cartons and switching the broiler on. 

Clinton set to work, Neal keeping a careful eye on his movements, and El watching the two of them as if they were subjects in an anthropological study. If she didn’t know better, there was something between them. They were so comfortable together suddenly, with an easiness that Neal didn’t share with anyone – not even Peter. Her spidey senses were definitely tingling.

“Shoot! Egg shell,” Clinton said, and tried to fish the fragment out of the bowl. 

“Use another egg shell,” Neal suggested.

“Huh?”

“Another egg shell.” Neal sidled up next to him, picked up a discarded shell and used it to remove the shard from the bottom of the bowl easily. His chest was pressed against Clinton's arm as he did it, the agent leaning in over the bowl to watch. When Neal was done, Clinton handed him a towel to clean off the raw egg on his fingers, and when he handed it back, the tips of Neal’s fingers brushed against Clinton's wrist. 

This time, El thought, there was no mistaking it – they were practically in each others’ pockets.

“Hey, neat trick,” El said. “You guys make a really good team.” She got a fake smile from Neal and a nod from Clinton with his eyes downcast, and decided this was going to be a lot of fun to watch.

Just then, Peter came into the room, bearing a chafing dish and some other supplies for the buffet he’d just retrieved from the basement. “Hon, I couldn’t find the coffee urn, do you think we’ll really use it? Oh, hey, Jones.”

Jones gave a little wave and El noticed how his back was suddenly so much straighter than before – there was no denying that Navy training. He’d finished cracking the eggs and gathered up all of the shells in a towel to take to the garbage disposal in the sink. When Neal reached across him to grab a whisk from the counter, he stepped back, suddenly avoiding the closeness.

 _Huh, that’s interesting,_ El thought while answering her husband’s question. Her eyes flicked over to Neal, who was keeping Peter in his sight the entire time, at least peripherally, while he set a couple of skillets on the stove and began to whisk the eggs for the [frittatas](http://rabidchild67.livejournal.com/87104.html) he was making. 

“Who wants a Bloody Mary?” she asked them all in a loud voice, and Jones actually jumped. 

As the hour progressed past noon, the rest of the team began to trickle in – Diana and Christie, who El had never had a chance to meet before this; Blake and his new girlfriend, who looked to be old enough to be his mother; a few more of the Harvard Crew and their spouses. It was a lucky thing the weather was fine, because the Burkes’ first floor was soon a very crowded place, and many had set up shop out on the patio. 

Elizabeth floated around on a high of caffeine and vodka, ensuring her guests were well tended and the conversations were lively. There was a knot of folks in the living room playing a lively round of Jenga, a heated conversation in the dining room about the relative merits of different brands of ammunition, and Neal was in the kitchen telling yet another amusing story about his “alleged” adventures in Europe all those years ago to a group of enraptured spouses who had not yet heard them all. 

Seeing that the party was in full swing, El headed up the stairs to her bedroom to change her shoes, which were new and giving her a blister. When she emerged, she saw Neal and Clinton in the hallway outside the bathroom, waiting to use it, she assumed. They were standing facing each other, and Neal was wiping powdered sugar off of Clinton's mouth with his thumb, speaking softly and smiling the type of private smile – at once happy, indulgent and shy – that she’d seen on him only once, when he was dating Sara. 

El froze in the doorway, hoping they hadn’t seen her. She didn’t want to make them feel uncomfortable, and she didn’t think it was any of her business if they were an item. She backed into her room and sat on the bed to wait a few minutes, until she heard the toilet in the bathroom, then the door open and close again as one of her guests exited. Thinking the coast must be clear, she headed back towards the door, only to be met by Neal in the entry.

“Oh, Neal,” she said, surprised and suddenly flustered. “Can I get you anything?”

“No, nothing. Besides, if I needed anything, I think I know where to find it by now.”

“You’re probably right,” she said with a fake laugh that made her cringe.

“Elizabeth, I need to discuss something with you, do you have a moment?”

She didn’t want to have this conversation with him – not now or ever, but she didn’t think she had much choice. She looked up at him expectantly.

He took a deep breath and looked her in the eyes, his tone low and his expression intent. “I think you saw something just now that you shouldn’t have, and I wanted to clear the air.”

“Oh, honey, I didn’t see anything, I –“

“I know you did, and it’s all right, actually. Clint and I are seeing each other, but I think we’ve been a bit careless today, and it can’t happen again. I know you noticed; I know you’ve got a finer tuned sense of awareness than Peter, even, and we couldn’t have hidden this from you if we tried. But I have to ask you something, and it’s extremely important. You cannot tell anyone about this.”

“Of course, I’ll be totally discreet.”

“I should be plainer. You can’t tell _anyone_ , Elizabeth. I don’t want to have to ask you to keep a secret from your husband, but you’ve got to keep this a secret from your husband. Do you understand? This could end his career, and I’m not kidding.”

“Neal, I –“

“I’m not asking you to do this for me, I’m asking you to do it for Clint. He’s the kindest, most wonderful person, and he doesn’t deserve the shit storm that getting mixed up with me is going to bring down on him. So, please, _please_ , I know this is a lot to ask, but can you keep this to yourself – at least for the time being? Until we can figure out whether or not to tell Peter?”

Elizabeth looked up at Neal, saw the sincerity in his eyes, mixed with fear and maybe even love, and knew she couldn’t betray them if she tried. “You have my word, Neal,” she said. 

His face broke open into a broad grin, and he pulled her to him in a tight hug, breathing a heavy sigh of relief as he did so. “Thank you,” he whispered into her ear.

“Please don’t mention it. Except now…” she looked up at him as he released her, a twinkle in her eye.

“What?”

“Well, I was so hoping to have another couple we could see socially, and now you’ve thrown a wrench into all my plans.”

“Oh, God,” Neal laughed.

“So much for the leaf peeping tour in Vermont this October,” she teased, and when he flinched, she couldn’t help torturing him just a little bit more. “Or antiquing in Lancaster County. Whatever shall I do?”

“You can never mention antiquing to me again, for starters.”

“Hee!”

\----

**Never Let You Go**

_Shit_ , Neal thought as soon as the words were out of Olsen’s mouth, _I’m made._

He and his mark locked eyes, every cell in the big man’s body a challenge, his voice low, dangerous. “Did you hear what I said? Manny Ribeiro is in Hong Kong. He has been for the last six months.”

“Come on, Art, let me explain,” Neal said, trying to be ingratiating, and wishing he could keep the tremor out of his voice. “You can’t blame me for trying to get in on this. Besides, Manny told me he was staying in the green, green hills of Kentucky, so I thought it’d be cool.” If ever there was a time to use his code word, this was it; Olsen’s reputation for violence was well-deserved. 

Olsen opened the top drawer of his desk and pulled out a very large gun. Neal threw up his hands and took a hasty step back. “A man doesn’t get this far in my line of work without a healthy distrust of everyone.”

“Well, of course not. You’re a careful man.” _Why did it always have to be guns_ , he thought fleetingly.

“Cut the shit, Halden. If that’s even your name. The only thing keeping me from killing you right now is I’ve got nosy neighbors.” He gestured towards the door with the gun. “Let’s go.” 

“I don’t, I don’t think, I mean, can’t we just talk about this?” Neal babbled, hoping he was stalling long enough for the team to move in. 

“Move,” Olsen ordered and advanced on him, taking hold of Neal’s arm in one meaty hand.

Then there was a crash as the door was bashed in and suddenly Peter and Diana were there, guns drawn and shouting. “FBI, DROP YOUR WEAPON!”

Olsen spun Neal around, using him as a shield, and started moving towards the back exit, shouting back at them. “No way, no way! Don’t come any closer!”

Despite the chaos, Neal’s head was surprisingly clear, his mind registering a hundred tiny details as they unfolded, the position of each person in the room, their voices, where they placed their feet, the scent of Olsen’s aftershave, the rough skin along the man’s knuckles.

“DROP YOUR WEAPON NOW!” came a new shout as Jones and another agent burst through the rear exit. Olsen rounded on them, saw his escape was cut off and panicked, firing four shots that Neal, in his strangely heightened sense of awareness, could almost trace the trajectories of. Two went wide, the third hit the first agent in the center of his vest, and the fourth caught Clinton in the neck. He dropped like a stone.

Reacting on instinct, Neal threw his head back suddenly, catching Olsen in the nose with a sickening crunch. He put all his strength into driving his elbow up into the man’s rib cage, spun and punched him, hard, in the throat. Neal was moving before the man hit the floor, running to Clinton and sliding to his side on his knees.

“Clint!” he said, assessing the situation. The bullet had torn a channel along the unprotected space where neck met shoulder, and blood was streaming out of the wound freely. Somewhere in Neal’s mind, he registered that the blood wasn’t spurting, which maybe meant an artery hadn’t been damaged. _That had to be good, right?_

“Neal!” 

“Shit! Hang on.” Neal removed his jacket, wadded up one end and pressed it immediately into the wound, bearing down hard, praying the pressure would be enough to staunch the flow until help could arrive. Clinton screamed in pain, his leg kicking out, grasping at Neal's’ arm desperately.

Somewhere behind him, Neal could hear Peter shouting, “Man down! Man down!” and yelling for paramedics to be called. Diana was kicking the shit out of Olsen and cuffing him. Within seconds, Peter was beside Neal, checking on the other agent who had entered with Jones. “Breathe,” Peter instructed him. “You took one in the vest, breathe. You’ll be OK.”

Blood was welling up through Neal’s fingers and he pulled another section of the jacket up and pressed it against the wound with renewed strength, hunching forward so that more of his weight was brought to bear in applying the pressure. Clinton cried out again and cursed, tears running down his face, clutching desperately at Neal’s left arm, holding him closer. If their grasp wasn’t a matter of life and death, anyone would think the two were wrestling. 

“Neal,” Clinton sobbed.

“I know it hurts, I know it. I got you.”

“Don’t let go.”

“I’m not letting go, I’m not.”

“Don’t let go.” Clinton's own grip on Neal’s arm was like a vise.

“Medics are on their way,” Peter said, a hand on Neal’s back. “Hold on to him, Neal. Don’t you let go.”

“Not letting go,” Neal whispered, “never let you go. Never, never,” over and over.

He looked down at Clinton, saw his eyes were fluttering closed. “Stay with me Clint. Baby, please,” he begged. 

Neal’s awareness was now reduced to one thing: his lover was gravely injured, and it was up to him to save him. He did not care if what he said was overheard by Peter, or the guys in the van; he did not care if how he behaved now was being judged or held up to unwanted scrutiny. All he knew was the man he loved was possibly dying and he wouldn’t let that happen.

Neal hunched down over Clinton's body, pressed his forehead against Clint's, all the while bearing down, his hands keeping up the pressure on his neck, keeping the blood at bay – keeping him alive.

“Neal.” 

“Please don’t die, Clint, please, I need you, I need you, please.” 

“No, Neal, I won’t.” 

“Please, please,” Neal repeated, desperate.

“I won’t, I promise,” Clinton answered, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Please.”

“I promise”

“Please.”

Neal didn’t know how long it took, but he held on to Clinton, kept him talking, and eventually he was aware that someone was squeezing him on the shoulder. It was Peter.

“The medics are here. At last.”

Neal nodded, but didn’t move – he wouldn’t let go of Clinton. He couldn’t.

“Neal, you can let go now. Let go.” Peter was rubbing his back with one hand while the other tried to pull him up and off of Jones.

Neal looked around, saw the paramedics with their equipment, there to save Clinton. He reluctantly let them take over, let Peter lead him away, watched as the medics worked, running an IV, administering morphine and pressure bandages and plasma. 

Neal strained against Peter’s hold on his arm, his hands working uselessly in the air. “They’ve got him now,” Peter said, shaking him. “They’ll take good care of him.”

“Please, Peter,” Neal began to speak, but his voice broke under the strain, and he was soon shaking. He looked down at his blood-soaked hands, held them in front of himself as if they were alien.

“Shh, Neal. It’s all right. He’s in good hands.” Peter kept talking to him. Neal realized that his friend’s arm was around him, holding him close, soothing, comforting. 

“I can’t lose him, Peter. Not now. Not when I finally found him.”

“You won’t, buddy, you won’t. He’ll be OK. He’s in good hands.”

“You think so? Do you?”

“It’s all I’ve got for you, Neal.”

“OK. Sure.”

They watched together as the medics put Jones onto a stretcher and bore him away to the ambulance. Peter followed with Neal, his arm around his partner, holding him close, murmuring meaningless platitudes to keep him calm.

When Clinton had been loaded in and the ambulance began to pull way, Peter produced a handkerchief from somewhere and handed it over. Neal wiped as much of Clint's blood from his hands as he could, not thinking about what it was, about how much he’d seen spilled on the floor, and soaked into his suit jacket, now discarded on the floor of the warehouse and forgotten. “What do I do now, what do I do?” he asked no one.

“You pull it together, and you go to the hospital, and you be with him. He’s going to need you, Neal. And you need him.”

Neal looked at Peter, and realized that Peter was not angry at him for being involved with Clint, he was not shocked, or judgmental. He was being supportive, like anyone would be for a friend. 

“Peter, you don’t know...”

“I’ve known for a while, buddy. Let’s go now. We’ll talk about what it means later, ok?”

Neal looked at him then, and saw the compassion and worry in his eyes, and knew there would be no repercussions from him for this – of course there wouldn’t be. He could face whatever came down from Hughes or Bancroft because of this, but he was suddenly ashamed for not trusting Peter. How could he have doubted? “I’m sorry,” he told him.

Peter put a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t be sorry. Be good to each other. It’s the most any of us can ever hope for, right?” Neal nodded. “Let’s get goin’.”

\----

**Why I Love You**

Clint tried in vain to concentrate on the Army-Navy game on television, but two things were keeping him from it. First, there was no way in hell Navy was going to come back from a two touchdown deficit with less than three minutes on the clock. Second, Neal kept fidgeting around, and it was an unbelievable distraction.

It had been a long-ass week, as Diana was fond of saying – one filled with trial prep on a number of cases, which meant long, tedious days in conference rooms with various prosecuting attorneys. That much inaction tended to wreak havoc on Neal’s psyche, and the effort to remain professional took an actual physical toll. Clint thought he could actually see the tightness in Neal’s shoulders, who had been muttering about not being able to find a comfortable position for the last half hour, and had relocated to the floor, leaning against the couch stiffly. 

Clinton tossed the remote onto the couch and leaned forward, positioning the knuckles of his right hand against Neal’s trapezius muscle where it stretched over his shoulder blade, and pressed hard. 

“Oh,” Neal said, suddenly still. Clinton pressed harder and began to knead the muscle through his thin, cotton t-shirt, felt it warming up under his touch. He moved slowly upward towards his neck, and Neal arched his back like a cat, a low moan sounding in his throat. Clinton worked at the left shoulder for a few more minutes, then turned his attention to the right, following the same track as before. By the time he was done, Neal had visibly relaxed, his head bent forward with his chin on his chest and eyes closed. 

“Better?”

“Mmmm.”

“Good.” Clinton sat back against the arm of the couch and took a sip of his beer, and reached for the TV remote.

Neal leaned back, his head against Clinton's knee and smiled at him. “See, that’s why I love you. You always do everything just right.”

Clinton stopped with his hand hovering over the remote and looked at Neal; he'd never said the "L" word - neither of them had. “You love me?”

“I do.”

Clinton stared at Neal for a minute, into those blue eyes he’d gotten to know so very well, and saw the truth of his words there. “Good. I was beginning to think it was just me.”

Neal’s smile was almost shy. 

“Tell me again. What do you love about me?” 

“Are you fishing for compliments?” 

“I am.” 

Neal twisted around onto his knees and Clint opened his legs wider to accommodate him. Neal rested his forearms on Clinton's thighs. “Well, for starters, you’re incredibly honest.”

“You don’t say.”

“Almost to a fault. I find it refreshing.”

“High compliment coming from a con man.”

Neal raised an eyebrow and smiled, continuing. “You’re thoughtful and loving and generous.”

“Thank you.”

Neal moved closer and laid a hand on Clinton’s crotch. “You’ve got the most gorgeous cock I have ever seen.”

Clinton snorted. 

Neal laid a hand on his cheek, feeling it warm. “And you blush. I love that I can make you blush.” Neal slid his hand to the back of Clinton's neck and pulled him closer for a kiss, all the while rubbing at his crotch, coaxing an erection from his lover.

Clinton sat forward and kissed Neal with a sudden urgency, bringing his hands up to Neal’s face and running his thumbs along his jaw. While they kissed, Neal worked at Clinton's belt and opened his pants, pulling his cock out and jacking it slowly. 

Clint's breathing hitched as Neal touched him, and he kissed him back with even more fervor, getting off the couch and onto his own knees, easing them down until they were lying on the rug and making out like kids. Neal rolled them so that he was on top, and he got up on an elbow and looked Clinton in the eyes. “Another thing I love – every time I touch you, it’s like it’s the first time. You’re always so…amazed.”

“I am amazed. You amaze me.”

“If you only knew what that does to me.” Neal cupped the side of Clint's face with his right hand. 

Clinton reached up and ran his fingertips over Neal’s brow, lips, chin, his eyes following the progress they made, and when he finally looked into Neal’s eyes, his own were bright and so focused, it was startling. “I have to tell you something. I’ve never loved a man before, and more importantly, I’ve never loved anyone the way I love you. You tell me about all the things you love about me? I’ve got a list about you that’s got a hundred things on it, and it grows by the day. When I’m with you, it’s like I’m finally home. Do you know what that feels like? To feel that you’re truly where you belong?”

Neal kissed him gently. “I do.”

“Well, I’ve never had it before, so when you touch me, I still can’t believe it’s possible. It’s the most wonderful feeling, and I never want it to stop.” He raised his head from the floor and kissed Neal then, a kiss at once urgent and sweet, passionate and heartfelt, and when Neal came up for air, his own breath hitched, and he nuzzled his face against Clint's neck.

“Amazing,” he sighed.

\----

Thank you for your time.


End file.
